Creepypasta Riffs: Pasta Noir (Part 3)

Ad blocker interference detected!

Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.

Part 3 of my continued Riff of "Pasta Noir!" Let's see, there are 12 chapters, I've done 3...so I'm 25% of the way done! Yay! Now, I might take a bit of a break from this, and do a Riff of a different story, just to keep my sanity and give everyone a break. But it's a big maybe. Though if I do go that route, I'm Riffing "Herobrine."

Anyway, this is the part of the story where people start eating. A lot. So, let's get out our napkins, and Riff this bitch.

3. Murder, Breakfast of Champions Yep, I love a nice plate of murder, served with a side of manslaughter.

“I had a cup of coffee! That was all! That’s a great breakfast.” Michael shook his head in disbelief.

“Hey, the system works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it...” Chris placed his hand on Michael’s back, leading him toward the front door.

Chris looked around at the C.S.I. and beat cops and said loudly, “Carry on, my wayward sons!” Quick, get ready! The Supernatural fandom is coming!

The hash house was cheap, dirty and nearly empty due to the snow. The stereotypical retired guy You know what’s not stereotypical? His name. Ivan Von Dragonofsky. was there sipping coffee, reading the newspaper, and loitering. It had all the charm of a funeral home. I’ve been to many funeral homes, and I find them pretty charming. Then again, I’m there to see my enemies, so that might be it. The air was so thick you could cut it with a machete. This story should’ve been called “Pasta Noir: Dames, Slugs, and the Macheteman.”

Although Chris was depressed in general But was he depressed in captain? since the loss of Abby & Connor, he still had a good appetite and the metabolism of a 15 year old. “Mmm! The loss of the two people I love most in this world makes me hungry!” He wolfed down a Grand slam with scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes, with a glass of orange juice. He was on his second glass while Michael worked on his coffee and a ham & cheese omelet. It was warm inside the joint and the staff liked having the cops around since the sheer number of daily crazies was something to take note of. “You taking note of them?” “Yeah, I’m writing them down.”

“Have you read any of this story yet?” Chris asked before gulping down some O.J. Simpson?

“No, not yet. I figured I’d do that at the station or at home. It looked pretty long. Yes, this story is. The guy who wrote it, Andrei Borislava, lives in Detroit and is originally from Bulgaria. “Alright, let’s get a warrant to go to Detroit.” He’s here on a student visa,” Michael informed Chris.

“Well, let’s read it and give him a call. I’ll leave the tip,” said Chris. “Hey, how’s Carol & the kids?” “Alive, unlike your family.” he asked as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a 5 dollar bill.

Michael sat up from the booth and put on his beige trench coat. “They’re good. Mickey started crawling yesterday and Eva loves Kindergarten. “And Jennifer is a heroin addict. She’s a continued disappointment to me.” Carol is good,” he nodded.

“That’s good. Hey, you spend as much time as you can with those little rug rats! They grow up fast,“ I don’t think getting killed counts as growing up. Chris said as he placed the open 5 under his glass. “Hey, uh, why don’t you go home at lunch and spend it with Carol. I’ll go back to the station and read the story. Just text me the link. I’ll fill you in on the cliff notes later.” Chris insisted. That night, Chris slept with the light on.

“Yeah, OK. Thanks, man.” Michael thanked Chris’s kind gesture.

He felt pity for Chris. Everybody did. He lived in Texas, so I pity him too. Every day they saw every form of violence under the sun: Shootings, stabbings, suicides, strangulations, decapitations, “bad writing” rape. Yet, other cops couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, losing their families to the darkness of the streets. Chris Priest had been that cop who had the big prize. “He won a giant stuffed bear at a carnival.” Then in a brilliant flash, he lost what was most important. The spark, the fire, that which kept him from losing his marbles after seeing all of the ugly that he had seen, his saving grace. Also, booze helps.

Chris sat in front of the dinosaur of a computer monitor, curiosity peaked. He shared a dark, damp office with Michael towards the back of the station. It was out of the way, just perfect for Chris. The door was closed. He didn’t want any interruptions. “Now I can finally watch some porn.” The time was now 1:49pm. Looking at the text message from Michael, he typed in the link. It took him to the Scarypasta website. “Pasta of the month: A Large Piece of Graphite.” Chris read. A black background appeared with the title "A Tale of Him Holding a Lemon" in white letters. He began to read; he was captivated from the start. “It’s so bad, but I can’t stop reading.” Every word, every sentence pulled him in. This story was on par with Stephen King’s work. Did it take place in Maine? An hour had passed into the story when Chris received a text from Michael. “Why did Michael send me nudes?”

Michael: Calling it a day. At the Hospital. Eva had an asthma flare up. Talk later or tomorrow. Tomorrow is later, technically.

Chris: Ok buddy. Do what you need to do. “Sacrifice people to Cthulu if you want.” Von Drack ain’t going anywhere. Except to the morgue. Catch you on the flip. Did you mean flipside?

Michael: Thanks

With that, Chris resumed the story with all the intrigue of a child. It told of the writer’s horrifying experience of a creepy Cheshire Cat-like smiling man who appeared throughout his life holding up and offering him a lemon. That being a Creepypasta, this man was either a pedophile or a murderer. He never said a word, just held a once brilliant yellow lemon, now rotting with the years. It was the same lemon every time. “Except for the fifth time. The guy lost it that time.” Upon each encounter, the author manages to get away. He traces this man throughout his family history and, after a visit, finds the same man appeared to his Grandmother. Slemonder Man!

The pattern continued throughout his life growing up in Bulgaria until he moved abroad to study in the U.S., which is where he is now. Before he knew it, Chris had finished the story, highly entertained and completely oblivious to the time. It was now 5:04pm. Four hours? Dude, it took me like an hour at most to read something like “Penpal.” You’re a slow reader. Only then did he realize how full his bladder was. He was so engrossed in reading about solid yellow things that he didn’t notice the liquid yellow things in him. After reading the entire story and all of the comments turning up no solid leads, he came to the conclusion that the killer or killers bumped off poor old Mr. Von Drack to re-create the ending of this story… but why? I don’t know. Fans are weird. Except fans of the Riffs. You’re all cool. He would start with the scribbler.

“Hey, Mary. How’s it going, dear? I’m fine, just burnin’ the midnight oil. “No, don’t call the fire department.” Listen, I have a lead I want to contact but need a trace. He’s a Bulgarian national living in Detroit on a student visa. His name is Andrei Borislava. Right. “Yes, I know he has a weird name. He’s from Bulgaria!” That’s Andrei, A-N-D-R-E-I, Borislava like it sounds B-O-R-I-S-L-A-V-A. Yeah. How soon can you have it? “Five years? Can you shave a bit of time off of that?” Yeah? Good. Thanks, sweetheart. You’re a doll. “I’ll play with you when I get home.” I’ll be waiting in my office.”

Michael wiped away the dream dust from his eyes. Isn’t “dream dust” a drug of some sort? All he wanted was just a few more hours sleep but knew that if Chris could manage to wake up every day and pull himself up out of his stupor, so could he. Well, Chris has booze to look forward to. At least he still had his spark, his reason for it all. In the Mexican culture, family is everything. In rich people culture, family is irrelevant. He turned his head to his right side where his wife Carol was sleeping in peacefully, gracefully. “He was glad he used the chloroform tonight.” The way the light hit her face and shined off her hair was poetry. Was it good poetry? He was dizzy with this dame. Well, now I know it’s noir. He turned toward her and kissed her on the forehead, placing his left hand on her hair, caressing the wavy black locks.

He turned back and reached over, picking up his cell from the nightstand to check the time. 7:24am. He unlocked the screen and began to text Chris.

Michael: Good Morning America. Breakfast? You’re buying.

Chris: Sure. Usual spot. 8:30. I’ll be the dapper one in the leather jacket. Classy.

Michael: You mean the leather mini skirt right? Kinky.

Chris: Nice comeback. I got intel on the Von Drack case. Catch you on the flip side amigo. Ok, so he says “flip side” here, but “flip” in the other chapter.

Michael opened the glass door of the hash house and walked through. It looked like a retirement home dining room. He was greeted by the hostess, a smiling kitten. Well, that place is pretty unique if it has a cat as a hostess. Young, cute, full of life. “She made Chris’ wiener big.” She was hitting on all eight. Wait, so she isn’t a 10?

“Good morning, sir. Just one?” she asked as she reached for a menu and pre-rolled silverware under the podium.

“No, Ma’am. I’m meeting my buddy. “So that’s one and a half.” Over there, the gentleman in the cheap leather jacket.” Michael motioned in Chris’s direction. Chris gave a confirming wave and nod to the hostess.

“Yessir, right this way,” she invited with a giggle. Michael followed her to the booth where Chris had just started on his Nutella Ohhh, Nutella. Mmmmm. Er, sorry. crepes and scrambled eggs with a side of ham.

“Well, well. The Sundance Kid rides again,” That’s what he did with Carol last night. Chris greeted Michael while working diligently on his crepes.

“Your server will be right over to take your order, sir,” the hostess interrupted before taking her leave.

“Thank you, dear,” said Chris.

Chris looked up at Michael and asked, “How’s Eva?” “Alright, though some guy called Wally keeps hitting on her.”

Michael looked at Chris. “She’s doing better today, gave us quite the scare.” A Scarypasta?

“Yeah, glad to hear it. Listen, don’t feel bad but I took over for you last night. I tracked down and spoke to Borislava. “I stalk him now.” Read the story too. It was good,” Chris explained. “He had an alibi. He’s in Detroit. He seemed horrified that somebody would have linked his pasta and use his…”

“Wait, what? His PASTA?!?” “HIS PASTA?! HOW ABSURD! YOU CAN TELL IT’S ABSURD BY MY YELLING!” Michael interrupted as he gave Chris his full attention.

“Yeah, that’s how they refer to the stories... What? “It’s better than what the Crappypasta stories are called.” Don’t give me any grief, they’re good. I liked them,” Chris said as he looked Michael in the eye before taking another bite of his ham. Now I have this image of my head of Chris looking Michael dead in the eye while eating. It’s glorious.

“Anyway, he wanted to take the story down and I told him to leave it up. I found a future Riff. It may draw the killer out again and we might be able to track his I.P. address. I also took Von Drack’s photo around the fairy clubs Fairy clubs? I don’t think Tinker Bell is able to tell who killed Von Drack. after I spoke to Borislava.”

Michael began to laugh. “You actually went to a gay bar? So, did you get lucky?” He was up all night to get lucky, actually.

Chris now had an annoyed look on his face. “If you mean did I I.D. the Nancy-boy kissing Von Drack, then yes I did, Watson. Mary Jane? Several people confirmed his identity and current whereabouts,” Chris retorted.

“No shit! Who is he?” Michael was intrigued.

“He is one Johnny Aguilar, 54, a retired U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant and recently deceased. Eight months ago. Heart attack, ” “So he’s six feet underground? Get a warrant to search his grave.” Chris answered. He was now halfway finished with his breakfast.

Just then a tall, wiry man wearing glasses approached the table to take Michael’s order. “Good morning, sir; my name is Abel. I wonder if he’ll be Abel to help. I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get you to drink?”

“So, the autopsy results won’t be in for 72 hours. Which means you two have time to dance. Our only lead now is going back to the station and researching the Scarypasta website. Do you really need to do that at the station? Why not do it at home, or on your phone? See if the killer has posted anything new on there, bragging or whatever,” Chris suggested before gulping down the rest of his tall glass of orange juice.

“Yeah, sounds like a plan man. That rhymed. So, how did it go at the gay bars? Anyone try picking you up?” “Yeah, an Asian guy named George who says “Oh my” a lot.”

I really don't see what got that one reviewer's knickers in a twist about this part. It does add a bit to the plot, and had a few funny character moments. Now, I will say something here: the chapters of these stories have really abrupt endings. Last time, it ended with looking for next of kin. This time, it ends with Michael asking Chris if he was hit on at a gay bar. I don't know why, that bothers me. Also, the title of this chapter is a bit odd. Other than that, not much I can say. This story really isn't that bad. I'm only a quarter of the way through it (though the Riff of part 4 is in the works), but it really isn't as bad as that reviewer made it out to be. I've read Creeepypasta stories that piss me off in the first sentence. Maybe this story gets really stupid, but I doubt it.

Anyway, what do you guys think? Was the Riff funny? Was that reviewer right? Do you wish people at a gay bar would try picking me up? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.